


Mission Accomplished

by Witchy1ness



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: And German, F/M, Gaby's got this shit covered, Illya-whump, and by that I mean there's Russian, and french, besides some swearing, sexy times ahead!, some language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 15:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchy1ness/pseuds/Witchy1ness
Summary: Things go a little sideways on a mission, but Gaby's never been good at being the damsel in distress.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redbrunja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/gifts).



> All recognizable characters are the property of Ian Fleming and Warner Bros., I'm just borrowing them :)
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> Reviews and constructive criticism welcome; flames will be ignored.
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> 
> So, this one kind of ran away on me...

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Gaby glanced around the ballroom, only listening with one ear to the conversation between her date and the latest dignitary whose name she’d already forgotten.

The rumours of Andre Perrot selling British intelligence had reached such a fever pitch that Waverly had felt there’d been no choice but to send them in; which was why Gaby was currently dressed up like a high-class prostitute and hanging off said-Frenchman’s arm. 

She _loathed_ honeypot missions. Just because she was female didn’t mean she was any good at it – give her the getaway car any day. Not to mention that she was beginning to suspect that her erstwhile companion swung in an entirely different direction altogether.

 _Should’ve sent Solo,_ she thought impishly, and had to hide a grin behind her champagne flute.

_He should’ve been here by now, anyways._

She twirled the stem of the glass absently between her fingers, the ticking in the back of her mind growing louder as minutes dragged by with no signal from either one of her clandestine partners. 

On the one hand, no noise was good noise, as it meant the men hadn’t been caught; on the other, Napoleon was supposed to have approached as staff to tell her there was a call for her ages ago.

The champagne froze halfway to her lips as she caught sight of one of Andre’s security detail weaving his way through the crowd. Pretending she hadn’t seen him, she turned and began faking interest in the conversation, which broke off when the man approached Andre and whispered in his ear.

The unholy glee lighting up the man’s face made Gaby’s heart leap to her throat, and she scrambled to keep up an expression of bored indifference as her anxiety spiked.

“Is everything alright, _Monsieur_ Perrot?”

“Quite alright, _Monsieur_ Barron, thank you; however, you must excuse us, please.”

There was barely enough time to exchange goodbye pleasantries before Andre was striding out of the ballroom, forcing Gaby to gather up her dress to keep from tripping as she tried to keep up with the two men.

“Is something the matter, darling?”

Andre slowed, patting her hand where it was tucked into the crook of his elbow. “My apologies, _ma chérie_ , but it would seem that my security detail has captured a rather delicious _cadeau_ this evening!”

Gaby’s stomach dropped to her fashionably pointed heels, and her smile froze as her fingers spasmodically dug into her clutch.

_This…can’t be good._

“Your security detail captured a – oh, you mean someone snuck in?”

“Someone _tried_ to sneak in,” he corrected her, “an _amateur_ , apparently, given how quickly and easily he was subdued.” 

“Well, if he was caught then why the hurry? Can’t you deal with him _after_ the party?” Gaby complained, trying desperately to sound like a disgruntled and confused prostitute and not a quietly panicking undercover spy.

Andre merely smiled, patting her hand in a manner she found vaguely threatening. “This won’t take long, _ma chérie_ , I promise.” 

_Shit._

Gaby thought fast. 

They were heading far enough away from the other guests that she had no worry about anyone else overhearing anything that might happen, and fortunately enough they were also heading to the section of the house nearest the garage. She had no doubt she and the boys would be able to get out of whatever situation they had landed themselves in, but it all came down to who’d been captured, what shape they were in, and how many security guards they would need to get through to make an escape. 

_But Andre only mentioned one person, which means someone had to have gotten away. Hopefully **with** the information._

Distracted as she was by trying to _not_ imagine worst-case scenarios, when the security guard finally ushered them into a room that held a roughed-up Illya on his knees surrounded by several other guards with drawn guns, it was tough to hide her relief.

Gaby only allowed herself a quick once-over of the Russian before turning back to Andre, striving to keep her expression uninterested.

Andre began to speak to his men in rapid French, frustrating Gaby; though she managed to pick out a few words, enough to feel confident that they had no idea Illya hadn’t been working alone. 

Sauntering over to sink into an empty chair, she let her gaze roam over the room as she began to lazily swivel the chair, not needing to feign the irritation on her face.  
Besides herself, Illya and Andre, there were five security agents in the room – not the best odds, even before factoring in that Illya currently had four men training their weapons on him. 

The room itself was rather spartan; aside from the bank of security cameras she was currently sitting in front of, there were only two other chairs and no windows. And the wastebasket was plastic, not metal, so even as a distraction it’d be next to useless. 

In the time it took her to confirm that the situation was as bad as it looked, Andre had finished speaking with his head of security and taken to slowly circling around Illya.

Regrettably, the Frenchman was smarter than he looked, as he did the circling from _outside_ the ring of his men, instead of in front of them where Illya could conceivably grab and use _him_ as a distraction to get out. 

“You Germans have a word for one such as him, do they not?” he asked conversationally, startling Gaby.

“You mean _ein Dieb_?” she managed dryly, needing a massive force of will to keep her eyes on him instead of Illya. 

Andre chuckled, and Gaby didn’t miss the hungry way his gaze traveled over the kneeling Russian. 

There was a tiny part of her that couldn’t blame him; wearing all black only served to highlight Illya’s blonde hair and blue eyes _and now was not the time to be thinking about that, Gaby!_ she mentally scolded herself. 

“Well, there is that,” he admitted, still chuckling. “But I was thinking more along the lines of… _übermensch_ , I believe is the term? Perhaps not proper to use it to describe a Russian –“ he lifted one shoulder in a Gaelic shrug, “ – but still rather fitting, do you not think so?”

Andre slipped to stand inside the ring of security and Gaby tensed, waiting for the moment Illya would explode forward.

But again her hopes were dashed, as at a gesture from Andre, his head of security unholstered his weapon and aimed it at her.

“Let’s not make any _more_ stupid decisions tonight, _oui_?”

Gaby raised one eyebrow, not even bothering to hide her scowl. “And what do you call this?” she jerked her chin at the gun barrel pointed at her face.

“ _Mein Gott_. You think to keep him under control by threatening a complete stranger?”

Andre actually stopped in his circling to throw her such a pitying glance it made Gaby bristle.

“But you’re not strangers, are you, _ma chérie_? Or did you think I was too stupid to make a connection between a break-in and the first night with a new _madam_? And I do apologize, but you make a rather horrible _fille de rue_.”

The fact that Gaby agreed with him only made her more irritated.

As he spoke, Andre reached down and carded his fingers through Illya’s hair, making Gaby stiffen and the Russian growl. Smiling indulgently – like one would at a misbehaving pet – he lightly slapped Illya’s cheek before tipping his chin upwards.

“So lovely to have a man like this on his knees, _oui_?” he murmured.

And before Gaby could even wrap her head around _that_ statement, Andre turned back to her with a wicked grin.

“He is the perfect gift, is he not?”

She spoke without thinking, still reeling from the rather unexpected mental image that had bloomed in her mind. 

“For me or for you?” 

Iilya’s eyes widened, while Andre considered her appraisingly and Gaby desperately hoped she didn’t look as horrified as she felt. Though none of the security agents in the room were so crass as to laugh, she caught sight of more than one set of firmly suppressed twitching lips.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said at last, “about someone in your _actual_ profession knowing about my…preferences.”

Gaby scoffed, quietly relieved to abandon all pretenses. “You are joking, yes? I don’t need to be a spy to figure out your preferences, I merely require a set of working eyeballs!”

She threw up her hands in mingled exasperation and nerves, causing the gun trained on her to twitch as she did so.

“You obviously haven’t stopped to consider what it looks like to the _rest_ of the world that all your employees – even those working as _maids_ – are male, and that not a single one of them could be considered unattractive.”

Definite grins now, although they immediately vanished as the security cameras suddenly went dark.

_Solo?_

Andre swore and immediately began to bark orders, causing two of the men to leave. 

_Four on two; not much better odds, but let’s do something about that._

She quickly appraised the new dynamic: the empty doorway to her right; Illya in front and to the side of her; the three guards – two with their weapons still trained on Illya, the third with his aimed at her; and Andre.

Said Frenchman was now standing at the bank of monitors, furiously punching buttons and twisting dials, and apparently too engrossed to realize just how _close_ he was standing to Gaby. 

Who heaved the loudest, most theatrical sigh she could.

It was always rather perturbing how fast a man Illya’s size could move, even from his knees.

At the same moment he was tackling Gaby’s gunman, she was ducking out of her chair, bringing her left arm up – the arm she’d so conveniently shielded from view – and shoving the end of a lipstick tube against Andre’s forehead.

A new weapon courtesy of Illya, the little derringer didn’t look like much but Gaby knew from testing it out that at this range – as in, no range at all – it was perfectly capable of dropping the Frenchman where he stood. 

“Drop your guns or the security monitors won’t be the only things going down. _Now_.”

The two conscious security guards hesitated long enough for Illya to whip back around and knock them both out with the expedient move of knocking their heads together.

 _I cannot believe that move actually works._

Slightly giddy with success, Gaby may have pressed the tube harder against Andre than was strictly necessary.

“I am impressed, _mademoiselle_. Although strangely enough, this is not the first time I have been threatened with a cosmetic.”

“Somehow I am not surprised; however, _you_ will be should you decide to make any sudden movements.”

Having finished with his creative repurposing of the goon’s ties into restraints, Illya loomed large at her elbow, acquired weapon trained steadily on Andre.

“We must go.”

“In a minute. Gun.”

“What?”

She risked briefly taking her eyes off Andre to cast an exasperated glance at Illya. “Give me your gun. Or _a_ gun, I don’t care. Hurry up!”

Illya, bless him, handed one over without further question, and she quickly tucked her lipstick back into her clutch – a little disappointed that she didn’t get the chance to try out the tiny firearm – before training the traditional weapon on the Frenchman. 

“On your knees,” she ordered Andre. 

He complied, wearing such a put-upon expression it would have been humorous were it not for the ticking clock once more in the back of Gaby’s mind as her ears strained to hear any sound of the returning security guards.

“Garage is out the door and to the left,” she said to Illya, beginning to back away. 

“Parting is such sweet sorrow, _mon ours russe_ ,” Andre murmured, and Gaby wasn’t sure whether to laugh hysterically or roll her eyes, but she could see the fingers on Illya’s free hand start tapping in her peripheral vision.

 _Verdammt. It’ll be Count Lippi all over again._

Swiftly changing course, she braced herself before bringing the weapon down on Andre’s skull with a stomach-turning crack, the man narrowly missing the computer console as he slumped to the ground. 

Spinning back around, she grabbed Illya by the wrist and began towing him out the door. 

“ _Now_ we can go.” 

“You have been spending too much time with Cowboy, I think,” Illya murmured, and Gaby was relieved to hear the faintest trace of humour in his voice.

“Jealous?” she quipped, only half-joking as she tried to distract herself from the instincts that were screaming they were going to run into the other security guards every time they turned a corner. 

Illya’s response – if there was in fact one – went unheard as they came in sight of the garage and were immediately spotted by a different set of security guards.

Gaby’s faint hope that these men hadn’t been apprised of the situation died as they immediately began shooting. 

Fortunately, the one thing Andre liked more than an attractive man was showing off his abundance of wealth, and he’d ever-so-kindly left some prime, four-wheeled examples of it out this evening in plain view of arriving guests. 

Cursing her outfit, Gaby managed to duck behind the nearest vehicle – an Alpine A110 1300 – without getting hit.

Illya had ducked to the left when the shooting started; sliding behind a Peugeot 404 before beginning to return fire. 

“Gaby!”

_“I know!”_

Cursing a blue streak – with a brief break for thanks when the door proved unlocked – Gaby crawled into the Alpine, fumbling with her clutch as she tossed her gun onto the passenger seat.

A short eternity later, the car roared to life and Gaby breathed a sigh of relief. Shoving the passenger door open, she floored it as she cranked the wheel, Illya diving in as she came up beside him.

_Nearly out…._

Illya’s terse “They’re coming,” made her groan.

“What are they driving?” she snapped, eyes darting only briefly to the rearview mirror.

Illya paused long enough that she began to worry that he’d been hit, and then:

“Blue cars?”

Gaby’s capacity for English momentarily deserted her.

_“Du….Trottel!!”_

Gaining the long drive, Gaby began weaving as shots started pinging off their vehicle. She risked a longer glance in the mirror and felt a fierce wave of triumph wash over her. 

“Peugeot 403s? Ha! They’ll never catch us in those.”

“They will if they hit our tires!” Illya cursed as he ran out of ammo. Tossing his gun, he pulled a second from his waistband and continued firing back at their pursuers, his other hand busy pulling the clip from her abandoned weapon.

“They’ve got to see our tires to hit them,” she muttered.

Ducking as their back window blew out, Gaby gritted her teeth before straightening up and giving the 120hp car its head.

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Unfortunately, a more powerful engine meant squat when driving through the veritable warren of congested Parisian streets, especially since Gaby had no idea where they were going beyond ‘away’. 

And it didn’t help that, for some odd reason, Andre’s line of _So lovely to have a man like this on his knees, oui?_ kept ricocheting tauntingly through her skull.

Gaby swore furiously as her heel got caught – _again_ – under the gas pedal.

_Never. Again!_

“They’re gaining, Gaby!” Illya shouted.

 _“I know!”_ she hollered back, yanking her foot free so that she could properly floor it once more. The little car jerked forward, throwing off Illya’s aim – and nearly the man too.

Gaby winced at the spate of Russian cursing audible even over the sound of continuous gunfire. But it didn’t stop her from cranking the car so tightly around a corner Illya nearly tumbled backwards into her lap in an effort to not have his head taken off. 

Fortunately, the tiny little car cornered much better than the ones that Andre’s security detail drove, and soon enough they’d managed to ditch their pursuers long enough to find a tiny little off-street and dump their ride.

 _And not a moment too soon_ , Gaby thought deprecatingly as she limped the car to the curb. She scrambled out, barely setting her heels to pavement before Illya was grabbing her arm in a firm but gentle grip as he began to hustle her along the dark Parisian streets.

Gaby risked a backwards glance, her mechanic’s soul whimpering as she caught sight of the several bullet holes, smashed windows, and two shredded tires the Alpine A110 was now sporting. 

_How the hell did I not get shot?_

“Where are you shot?” the thought and words came concurrently, and Gaby strained fruitlessly in the near-pitch blackness to run a worried gaze over Illya.

“Only grazes,” was the stoic reply. “Keep moving.”

 _Grazes. Right._ She didn’t exactly have the breath to argue at the moment, so Gaby kept her peace. 

For now. 

“Where are we going?” she asked instead, eyes darting constantly.

“Somewhere else,” was the flat reply.

“Solo?”

She muttered a curse as she nearly tripped over her dress, gathering up fistfuls of the material.

“Safe. When guards came into the office he hid while I acted as distraction. I saw him slip out but they did not, and it seems he was able to leave the grounds after taking out the cameras. By now he should be out of the city with the information.”

Gaby loosed a sigh of mingled relief and satisfaction. 

“So there was something to the rumours, then?”

_“Дa.”_

“At least something from this mission went right,” she muttered.

Illya huffed a laugh. “You do not think this mission went well?”

“You think it did?”

“We are alive and not captured; so yes.”

Gaby couldn’t argue with that. 

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	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was very hard to write smut I was happy with, so have my second-ever attempt!

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By the time Illya had found an acceptable bolt-hole (though Gaby wasn’t sure what made this barely-lit, questionable-looking building any more acceptable than any of the other barely-lit, questionable-looking buildings that they’d passed), Gaby was torn between worrying over his increasingly-laboured breathing or stabbing him with one of her stilettos. 

_I still might. They’d obviously be perfect for the job, given their name. But where…?_

Busy fantasizing over which non-fatal spot would be the most satisfactory target, she missed the entire conversation between Illya and the man who’d answered the door. She was jarred from her pleasant musings when her partner hustled them through said door and up a narrow staircase. 

And then she was busy attempting to navigate over six feet and two hundred pounds of injured Russian up a narrow, crooked staircase that she probably could have smacked both sides of with hands barely out-stretched. 

“How…much…further…?” she forced out through gritted teeth. The brief stop outside the tenement had allowed all the pain in her feet to come screaming to the forefront, and she needed to get these _verdammt_ shoes off _now_.

“We’re almost….there,” Illya promised, and Gaby didn’t like the hint of pain in his voice. “Last door on left.”

_Of **course** it’s the last door._

Now, while the man who had answered the door was rather nondescript looking, the sounds coming from behind the other doors they passed stoked Gaby’s suspicions as to exactly what kind of bolt-hole they’d found. 

_If he were Solo, I wouldn’t find this half as surprising._

Fortunately, the hallway was shorter than she’d feared, and soon enough they were in a tiny room barely big enough to hold the twin-sized bed and small nightstand in it. There was a stale scent to the air that Gaby didn’t want to dwell too deeply on. 

Both she and Illya groaned in relief as she dumped him rather gracelessly onto the bed, although she cringed internally at the thought of what could be on those sheets. 

“I need water and a first aid kit if you have one; or whatever medical supplies you have on hand if you don’t,” she snapped authoritatively over her shoulder to the proprietor. 

When he merely looked at her with a raised eyebrow and an affronted expression, Gaby’d had enough. Once more pulling her lipstick gun she leveled it at the man and repeated, “Water, first aid kit, _now_.”

With a derisive sniff the man left, muttering in French. Gaby was sure she’d caught the phrase “crazy German bitch” – even without knowing the language – sprinkled liberally throughout, but didn’t care.

Muttering curses of her own, she yanked the curtains closed over the tiny – barred – window before focusing back on Illya.

“English…Gaby…”

“Too late. You think he hasn’t noticed our accents?” she snapped before changing the subject. “Where are you hurt?”

A smile twitched at the corners of Illya’s lips. “Shorter list…of things…that don’t.”

Gaby wasn’t amused. “Can you get your shirt off or do I have to cut it off?”

In response, Illya grunted as he laboriously manoeuvred himself upright. The coat came off relatively easily, though Gaby noted several slashes in the item, some of which were edged in red. It took some careful teamwork – and another derisive sniff when the proprietor brought the things she’d asked for – but eventually Illya was bare-chested and Gaby grimaced as she ran her gaze over already darkening bruises. 

There were also a few gashes on his left forearm that were bleeding sluggishly, along with a long shallow slice running across the right side of his waist. There was a nasty graze on his left side that was bleeding, but fortunately no bullet holes. 

Gaby scowled at the assorted aid items scattered over the bed.

“You okay, chop shop girl?”

She transferred her scowl to the Russian reclining awkwardly on the bed, dwarfing the tiny piece of furniture and looking right at home in a French brothel.

“Oh just fine,” she muttered acerbically, “There isn’t a numbing agent here, and that bullet graze needs to be stitched –“

A one-shouldered shrug.

“Then just stitch it.”

Grimacing at both his words and the realization that the low bed made the easiest way of dealing with his wound to sit on the floor, Gaby set her jaw and got to work. 

It was a distressingly familiar process, and in no time at all the wound was cleaned and wrapped in protective gauze, with Illya lying as comfortably as she could make him. 

Taking a bracing breath, Gaby then turned her attention to tending to the myriad other of Illya’s cuts, bumps, and bruises. It wasn’t that she was particularly squeamish when it came to blood – gunshot wound aside, at least not at levels like this, which were similar to what she’d suffered after a bad day at the garage – but the necessity of being up close and _very_ personal with a shirtless Illya was doing funny things to her pulse. 

Not to mention the beginnings of a pounding headache from gritting her teeth in an effort to not notice Illya’s broad shoulders, or his well-shaped arms, or his –

_Not the time, Gaby. Not even **remotely** close to the time, or the place, or the **anything**. _

_Focus._

Finally finished, Gaby pushed off the bed with groan, wobbling as she stood. Illya quickly – too quickly, given his sudden intake of breath – sat up to put steadying hands on her waist just as hers landed on his shoulders. 

“You are injured?”

Being the sole focus of Ilya’s intense gaze was unnerving at the best of times, but now that the adrenaline was wearing off, Gaby found herself too exhausted and distracted by the burning pain in her feet to be uncomfortable. 

“Only by these instruments of torture you call _shoes_ ,” she snapped half-heartedly. “Next time, _I_ get to wear the boots.”

Before her exhausted mind could catch up, Illya was no longer on the bed but kneeling on one knee beside it, hands on her left ankle and Gaby was so startled she tried to back up only to come up short against the wall. 

“These are _not_ instruments of torture –” he began lecturing, and Gaby lost it.

It was the last straw; here they were, hiding out in a French brothel, Illya injured and on the run from a man with long enough fingers and a deep enough purse that they should be more focused on leaving _right now_ , with no car or weapons besides her little lipstick gun, and Illya was lecturing her about _shoes!_

She started to laugh.

Great, whooping, not-in-the-least-ladylike belly laughs that made her sides hurt and her eyes tear up.

She would have collapsed to the floor if there’d been enough room, but instead she found herself leaning rather drunkenly against the wall as Illya stared up at her worriedly.

“Chop shop girl?”

Wiping her eyes, Gaby let her arms drop to his shoulders, suddenly exhausted. 

“I’m fine, Illya,” she murmured with her eyes closed, “just the adrenaline wearing off, that’s all.”

Illya made a sound of disbelief but didn’t push her, which was a relief. 

Keeping her eyes closed as he removed first one shoe and then the other, Gaby found herself biting her lip in an effort to distract herself from the warmth she could feel seeping into her fingertips.

_So lovely to have a man like this on his knees, oui?_

_Shut **up** , Andre._

She opened her eyes in an effort to banish the lingering thought, her gaze landing on the top of Illya’s head. Gaby frowned as she realized there were flecks of dried blood on his scalp.

_Another injury?_

She (regretfully) lifted one hand, intending to check. But Illya brought his head up at the last moment, accidentally making her fingers rake through his hair instead. 

They both froze.

_There’s blood in your hair._

But the words wouldn’t come, leaving Gaby frozen, heart fluttering in her chest like an anxious butterfly as she stared down into Illya’s blue, blue eyes. 

For several heartbeats neither moved, and then Illya broke the moment, letting her second heel fall to the floor with a thump as he wrapped both broad, warm hands around her calves, shifting so he was kneeling at her feet. 

_So lovely to have a man like this on his knees, oui?_

There was a smug edge to the thought this time; and Gaby’s heart tried to shoot out the top of her head as she felt her breathing go slow and shallow. 

The minuscule amount of space between the bed and the wall meant that there was a minuscule amount of space between them, and she shivered as she became hyper-aware of his body heat seeping into her. 

With a life of their own, the fingers on Gaby’s hand moved, pushing back through that surprisingly soft hair. 

Illya’s eyelids fluttered but he never broke her gaze, and when his darkening eyes made her accidentally scrape her nails across his scalp his hands shifted to the backs of her knees. 

_I think…he liked that._

Before she could give herself a chance to second-guess herself – the time, the place, the consequences of continuing, the ramifications of stopping – she did it again, harder, carding her fingers into his hair firmly enough to make his head tip back, exposing the long line of his throat and _wow was it always this hot in here?_

_I swear to God if Napoleon comes in here now…._

But Napoleon wasn’t here; wasn’t, if Illya was correct, even still in the city. 

It was just her.

And Illya.

And enough sexual tension Gaby was half-surprised the room hadn’t caught on fire yet. 

The fact that _Illya Kuryakin_ – the Red Peril, the Russian KGB agent who could probably kill her as easily as sneezing – was kneeling _docilely_ between her legs sent a heady rush of power through her.

_“Gabriella….”_

Her fingers clutched spasmodically at the husky groan of her name in his voice, and Illya’s hands rose higher, feeling like burning brands as they wrapped around her thighs, rucking her dress up ever higher. 

To hell with it, Gaby decided; they were both adults, and they’d been dancing around each other for _far_ too long. 

She continued carding her fingers through Illya’s hair, running her hands over the back of his head and along his jawline to tip his head upwards as she pressed her lips to his. 

Still half-expecting _some_ sort of interruption, Gaby was pleasantly surprised when the only thing that happened was Illya kissing her back.

And _how._

His lips opened instantly, and before long she was going pleasantly light-headed as their tongues tangled and their breaths mingled.

By the time their screaming lungs necessitated they break for air, Gaby was rather dazed to find herself pinned against the wall with Illya’s hands on her bare ass and her legs wrapped around his waist. 

“We shouldn’t – “ Illya immediately tried to back off, but Gaby locked her ankles behind his back.

“Why not?” she challenged him, hating the breathless quality of her voice. “You don’t want to?” 

The groan that reverberated out of Illya sounded like it came from his toes, and it thrilled Gaby to the core, because she knew the sound of defeat when she heard it. 

_“Gaby – I –“_

“You want to,” Gaby mused aloud, leaning back in the space afforded her so she could run one hand down his chest, “and I want to, so I don’t really see what your problem is.”

It was absolutely fascinating watching the way his muscles twitched under her touch, and she was suddenly very tempted to lick the jumping pulse at his throat. 

“We don’t…have time…” the words were choked out, a fight between arousal and a desperate scramble to regain control, which Gaby immediately derailed by languidly rolling her hips against his abs.

“Then you better hurry up,” she murmured pointedly.

Gaby’s fledgling Russian lessons hadn’t included the word that Illya all but snarled, but his next action made translation a moot point. 

Abruptly sinking to his knees, Gaby let out a gasp that ended in a pant as the move shifted her fully into his lap and she could feel the physical proof of the effect of their make-out session beneath her. 

Her panting stuttered as Illya shifted one hand between her legs. 

_“У меня есть ты.”_

A shudder ran down her spine and Gaby dug her nails into his shoulders as he brushed his fingers intimately against her.

Illya shifted her so that he could claim her mouth once more, and Gaby felt her body respond as he kissed her roughly, eagerly.

There was still a slight pinch of pain when he finally pushed a roughened finger into her, her body willing but not yet completely caught up to her state of mind. 

“Illya….”

She didn’t even realize he’d unzipped her dress with his other hand until cool air swirled around her nipples, causing them to harden. 

Gaby dug her nails into his shoulders as he cupped first one breast and then the other, rolling and pinching each nipple until they were so hard it was nearly painful.

It was almost enough to distract her from him pushing a second finger into her, her inner muscles instinctively clenching and wringing another tortured groan from Illya.

And _oh_ those clever, clever fingers; Gaby threw her head back, not even caring when it thumped against the wall, eyes unfocused as all her senses zeroed in on the sensations Illya’s fingers were slowly beginning to coax from her. 

“Il-ly-a – ah -!”

She squirmed; the barely-there press of his palm against her clit causing her hips to move, chasing a harder touch. 

But Illya’s other arm was around her waist now, holding her in place as he gauged her body’s responses and reacted accordingly.

By the time he judged her ready and slipped in a third finger, Gaby had been reduced to threatening him in German. 

An issue easily resolved when Illya once again hoisted her up against the wall enough so that he could kiss her senseless.

She eagerly reciprocated, hips still straining to move against his fingers, chasing that slowly rising wave.

Higher and higher, the feeling rose in response to Illya’s maddeningly methodical pace until Gaby was ready to scream.

But the breath she’d sucked in to do just that vanished in a cry as he suddenly sped up, thumb pressing unerringly against her clit with exactly the right amount of pressure to finally push her over the edge.

She hadn’t even come down from the aftershocks before Illya was pushing into her, making her toes curl and back bow, and now the pace he set was brutal.

His arm around her waist held her flush against him, using the other to brace himself against the wall as he thrust into her.

_“Illya~!”_

She wasn’t going to last long; not like this, where every push of his hips drove him further and further into her, hardened nipples dragging against his skin until Gaby thought she’d go mad from the sensations on her hyper-sensitive skin. 

Her second orgasm hit like a freight train, tightening every muscle in her body until she felt like she would snap in two. And through it all Illya kept up his punishing pace, making orgasm number three appear hard enough on the heels of number two she wasn’t sure if it _was_ a separate one or just an excruciatingly exquisite extension of the second.

Either way, it proved to be the limit for Illya, as he pulled out with a hoarse oath, pressing his forehead to the top of her hair as he spent himself in the folds of her dress. 

The next several minutes were spent slumped in wanton dishabille, slowly regaining their breath – and in Gaby’s case, a case of the giggles. 

As she slowly began to collect herself, her gaze actually focussed on what she’d been blankly staring at over Illya’s shoulder, and a wave of laughter swept through her.

She clapped a hand over her mouth but it was too late to stop an errant giggle from escaping. When Illya pulled back enough that she could see the expression on his face, the mix of perplexed and hurt only made it worse. 

Gaby frantically shook her head, still laughing, grabbing onto Illya’s shoulders as he made to move away.

_“Ich bin –“_ she shook her head and tried again, desperately trying to gulp down the giggles. 

“I’m not – laughing – at you. It’s because – because –“ but it was too much and she dissolved back into gales of laughter, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. 

The hurt vanished, leaving Illya looking rather like a confused puppy; a mental image that did nothing to help her hysterics.

It took several minutes before Gaby finally managed to collect herself enough to choke out, “The _bed_ …is _behind_ you.”

Thoroughly confused, Illya glanced over his shoulder. “Well, yes, it is. Why is that funny?”

She smacked his shoulder in fond exasperation, finally catching her breath. “It’s _funny_ , because we just had sex against the _wall_ when there was a perfectly good bed not two inches away!”

Illya’s lips twitched, and then the both of them were roaring with laughter as Gaby threw her arms around his neck and Illya hugged her tight, and if this is what came out of it then maybe the heels weren’t so damn bad after all.

(Of course, they wound up having to redo Illya’s stitches, but the Russian didn’t seem to mind.)

 

(He _did_ mind – as did Gaby – the smug, Cheshire Cat grin Solo gave the both of them the minute they’d all reassembled; but he’d quickly held up his hands in mock surrender and said nothing on the matter.)

 

(For a few days, anyway.)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian Vocabulary  
>  Дa: yes  
> У меня есть ты: I have you.
> 
>  
> 
> The French and Russian vocab is courtesy of Google Translate, so if it sucks blame Google lol

**Author's Note:**

> French Vocabulary  
> Cadeau: gift  
> Fille de Rue: girl of the street (AKA hooker)  
> Ma chérie: my sweetheart  
> Mademoiselle: (young) miss  
> Mon ours russe: my Russian bear  
> Oui: yes
> 
> German Vocabulary  
> Du...Trottel!: You...idiot!  
> Ein Dieb: (a) thief  
> Mein Gott: My God.  
> übermensch: superman (ie. peak specimen)  
> Verdammt: damned


End file.
